fire burn and caldron bubble
by Emmy Smokes
Summary: Hogwarts AU. Varys and Littlefinger plot, Quidditch is serious business to Robb, Sansa's brothers disapprove of her dating choices, Margaery makes plans, and Bran plays pranks while his Reed friends roll their eyes at him. Meanwhile, something wicked this way comes - in the form of Daenerys Targaryen. No pairings yet.
1. Prelude

**fire burn and caldron bobble**

by Emmy Smokes

_**Prelude**_

**Author's Note:** This is a fill to a prompt on the asoiafkinkmeme asking for a HP AU. It's technically not a crossover, as I don't intend anyone from the HP world to appear here. This is more of an adaptation of the books and its characters into HP Land.

Bear in mind the cast will be large, much like it is on the ASOIAF books. Everyone will show up in one way or another, I hope, and there really won't be much of a protagonist.

Anyway, comments, questions, suggestions, etcetera, are always welcome and very much appreciated.

* * *

The four hourglasses glistened under the fading summer sun, turning the crystals into a similar shade of red and gold.

Petyr scowled.

He glanced around and smirked. It was a rare thing, finding oneself alone at the Entrance Hall before every Head of House's defenseless treasures.

Without a second thought, he drew his wand and—

"Littlefinger," a whimsical voice said. "Fancy seeing you here, old friend."

"It's Professor Baelish now, _Varys_."

The eunuch moved closer, smiling (always smiling). Petyr could smell the herbs and spices of his potions on him. Even as a student, he'd always wondered whether he carried them on his robes at all times.

Pale, boyish hands caressed the glass of the Slytherin House Hourglass. Its share of emeralds was considerably lesser than the rubies, ambers and sapphires on his companions. Petyr clenched his fists.

"A pity," Varys whispered, "that your House is doing so badly, Professor Baelish."

Petyr matched the Eunuch's greasy smile with one of his own. "A pity, indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me, some of us have business to attend to."

Varys was all manners and smiles. "Of course, of course." He bowed. "We are all quite busy these days."


	2. scale of dragon, tooth of wolf

**fire burn and caldron bubble**

by Emmy Smokes

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**scale of dragon; tooth of wolf**

* * *

Jon bursts out laughing when she tells them. Robb, however, does not look so pleased.

Their table at The Three Broomsticks is covered in butterbeer stains and crumbs. Sansa makes sure to keep her elbows from touching it. She also makes sure she meets her brothers' eyes with a defiance she does not feel.

"A Slytherin," Robb says, staring at her with piercing eyes. "You're dating a Slytherin."

"They're not _all_ bad," Sansa argues weakly. "And if I recall, _you_ are friends with some of them, Robb Stark."

Robb returns her challenging smile. His eyes only leave her face to direct his rage at Jon, "If you're not going to help, take your laughter elsewhere, Snow."

Jon coughs and nods seriously. When Robb turns his back to him, however, Sansa sees the twinkle in his eyes.

"Neither of you are my father," she tells them regally. "I can date whomever I want."

"His family's filled with Death Eaters, in case you've forgotten—"

"He is nothing like them."

But they both look at her like they always do—judgemental and disbelieving as only family members can be. Sansa sips her butterbeer and thanks Merlin that her little siblings aren't here to make her feel worse.

"Look, Sansa, we have quidditch practise in five minutes," Robb informs her. "Jon?"

Jon rolls his eyes before he starts gathering his things. He and Robb argue about paying the bill for a while, finally deciding Robb should pay. However, Sansa catches their half-brother putting a couple sickles on Robb's coat when he's not looking.

"Serpents may change their skins, but they never lose their fangs," Robb tells her warningly. "Remember that."

* * *

Arya cannot believe how _late_ they are. The sound of Asha's feet as she walks in circles is starting to get annoying. Arya and Gendry exchange a glance when they hear her cursing under her breath.

"They'll be here soon," Olyvar Frey says in soothing tones. Never one to let an insult against his idol stand, he shoots Asha a nasty look. "Robb is never late on purpose."

Young Griff snorts and mutters something under his breath. Olyvar turns to him as if he's ready to say something, but at that moment both Robb and Jon arrive, already in their uniforms.

"Sorry, folks," Robb says, not looking at anyone in particular. Asha and Young Griff, however, glare at him as if they wished to set him on fire. "I'm afraid we come with sad news."

As expected, Olyvar is on his feet at once. "What happened?"

"He'll be calling him '_my captain'_ in no time," Gendry whispers to Arya. She smirks, but is too intrigued by the look in her siblings' eyes to say anything back. Even Jon is refusing to meet their eyes.

"It appears the Slytherins have been spying on us," Robb informs them. He plops down on his favorite chair, the one they all refer to as the Captain's Chair, and begins to rub his temples. "Worse, they are planning on unleashing a troll on the day of the game."

"Are you sure the troll isn't just Joffrey?" Young Griff laughs.

Robb regards him with cold eyes. "Yes. Quite sure."

"Well, what do you want us to do?" Asha asks. "Cancel the game?" Her tone is menacing; her question, rhetorical.

Jon rolls her eyes at her. "Would you compare our lives to a game?"

"Life is a game," Young Griff says philosophically, "when you get right down to it."

Arya doesn't hear the rest of the conversation. Her thoughts are already on Joffrey, on Slytherin, on that troll. She instantly knows what they have to do.

"Let's find it," she says. No one listens: they are all bickering with each other. "Let's find the troll!" she tries again.

This time she's met with a stunned silence.

* * *

"I bet they're all going to the Headmaster as we speak," Joffrey says, giddy as a child on Christmas Eve. Beside him, the two Walders—the Big one and the Little one—are fawning over him like dogs over steak. Even their cousin Amerei looks pleased (not that there was much that could displease Amerei, or at least not in Theon's experience).

Theon tries his best to ignore them. He has another game of Wizard's Chess ahead of him, and this time he would not—cannot—lose. He's already been humiliated enough.

"Your move," Ramsay says, grinning. To any onlooker not acquainted with Ramsay (or his reputation) they must appear to be two friends enjoying a game. To everybody else—all those who still carry the marks of Ramsay's dark spells—this is no game.

(Perhaps that's why they have no onlookers. Every idiot in Slytherin knows better than to come close to Ramsay.)

Theon remembers the face of Ramsay's latest short-lived girlfriend, Jeyne Poole, and he sees red.

But he is no Gryffindor, and there is nothing he can do about Ramsay. He can't even best him in his favorite game.

"Cat got your tongue, Theon Greyjoy?" Ramsay taunts. Theon doesn't look at him. It's hard enough to concentrate beneath his all-seeing gaze. Instead he keeps his eyes on the board. Finally, he moves his Castle, which has been nagging him since the beginning of the game.

For a moment, Ramsay's watery eyes open wide. Theon smiles—victory, at long last—

—until Ramsay returns his smile with wicked force and whispers, "Bad move, bastard," before his knight crushes Theon's castle. "It appears you've lost, Theon Greyjoy."

* * *

"What have you done?"

It shines in terrible contrast against Visery's white skin, and for a moment it looks ready to come alive and bite her. Perhaps it would have been for the best, Dany thinks. If no one was ever going to forgive her for her family's sins, then what purpose does her life serve? What good is life when one leads the most solitary of existences?

But of course, Viserys is never going to let the matter drop.

"You'll get one soon, don't you worry." It is not a comment: it is a promise, and he seals it with a rough kiss on her lips and an even rougher pinch through her robes. "Soon, we'll have our revenge."

_I will never be like you. I will never be like Father_, she wants to say, but the words die on her lips. Her brother scares her when he's like this. She dares not move.

Viserys examines the tapestries on the walls. The Beggar Pureblood, they call him, though not to his face.

(In secret, Dany agrees with them.)

"You'll get one after you go to Hogwarts," Viserys is saying. "Once you're there, make sure you get sorted into Slytherin. I'll write to you, sister. You'd better write me back."

"Of course, brother."

* * *

**Author's Note:** My original intention when I set out to write this was to keep it light-hearted, funny, and overall fluffy. And though I think there's lots of irony and nods to both Harry Potter and ASOIAF here, it is definitely shaping up to be a tad darker than I intended, much like the HP books or films themselves.

Anyway, comments, questions, suggestions, etcetera, are always welcome and very much appreciated.


	3. for a charm of powerful trouble,

A/N: So, so, so sorry for how long this chapter took to write. A brief summary of our past chapters:

1. Littlefinger is Slytherin's Head of House and Varys is Ravenclaw's; they're mortal enemies.

2. Robb leads the Gryffindor quidditch team and thinks the Slytherins are planning on setting a troll loose on the day of their game.

3. Dany is transferring to Hogwarts due to mysterious reasons and also because of Viserys.

* * *

**fire burn and caldron bobble**

by Emmy Smokes

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**_for a charm of powerful trouble,_**

* * *

"You're stepping on me."

"You stepped on me first!"

"Not my fault you have clown feet."

"At least my hair isn't blue."

"Shut up, both of you! I told you we shouldn't have brought them along, Robb."

"It was _my_ idea in the first place!"

"Hush, little sister."

Robb rolls his eyes. "All of you shut up." As captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team _and_ Head Boy, it's his job to keep the Gryffindors in line, and it's a job he takes very seriously.

Not that they ever listen to him.

Presently, it seems the usual bickering between Gendry and Young Griff has gone from straight-up name-calling to bordering on physical assault, much to Arya's chagrin and Asha's amusement. Normally, Robb would be helping his half-brother end the dispute, but today is a special occasion and one he can't allow them to mess up. He has to focus on the task at hand, and on nothing else.

An opportunity like this comes once in a lifetime, after all. When else is Gryffindor House getting the chance of catching a real, live troll? Robb can practically see the looks on his parents' faces when they find out. Sure, he and Jon will get a howler accusing them of being irresponsible and of encouraging their baby sister to follow in their footsteps (as if Arya needed any encouragement in that department), but come Christmas, when Dad is done scolding them, Mom will pat them on the back and ask how they did it and then she'll laugh with them. Even Theon will crack a smile. The guy hates his housemates anyway, they'll probably be doing him a favor.

"On the count of three," Jon says quietly, and it is only then Robb realizes it's already starting. "One..."

Robb looks over his shoulder: Arya is right behind him, a determined expression on her narrow face, one hand holding her wand as the other clutches at Jon's robes. Griff and Gendry flank her like bodyguards. Behind them, Asha is smirking in a way that reminds Robb of her brother. Farther in the back, at the bottom of the staircase, Olyvar can be seen standing guard. Robb's team is ready.

"Two..."

Jon's wand is already pointed at the doorknob.

"Three!"

"Alohomora!" several people shout at once. Olyvar chooses that moment to shout something else, something that was probably important. But the door is blown off by the sheer force of their combined spells, and none of them has time to pay Olyvar any mind, seeing as they're too busy trying not to let any splinters get into their eyes.

This could have gone better, Robb will admit.

Then he sees Jon go pale, and it doesn't take a genius to guess that what's on the other side of the door is much worse than their teammate's well-meaning idiocy. Indeed, when he takes a peek over his shoulder, his insides turn to water.

Petyr Baelish, on the other hand, regards them as cooly as if they were merely arriving late to one of his lessons rather than, say, blowing up his door. It doesn't look like his chambers—Robb knows for a fact that he sleeps in the lower dungeons with the rest of his Slytherin hatchlings—so they must have stumbled into his private study. Indeed, the man presides over a table where stacks upon stacks of dusty old books sit next to maps, quills, and a seemingly endless supply of parchment.

"Er," is all Jon manages. Always so eloquent, the twat.

By then Olyvar has caught up with them – Little Walder and Big Walder, best known for being Joffrey's cronies, have dragged him there by the armpits. There is no sign of Joffrey, but that only makes Robb all the more furious.

What makes it even worse is that he knows exactly who this man is: the little boy who unsuccessfully tried to woo Robb's own mother, going as far as challenging her then-boyfriend to a duel. It is not a story that is often repeated in his home, but it is one he knows well. Ever since his very first day at Hogwarts, Baelish had made a point to single him and his siblings out, always delighting in taking points from them for the flimsiest reasons imaginable.

"Professor Baelish," Robb starts, with great difficulty. He hopes his insincerity isn't too evident. "We are terribly sorry. If we'd known... I mean we were... We were only—er—"

"Looking for the troll," Arya says immediately – and unhelpfully.

"Arya!" they all say at once.

She shrugs. "What? It's the truth. Not our fault they set it loose on school grounds."

Baelish looks as unimpressed as ever. If anything, he looks bored.

"Gryffindors," he says in his lazy drawl and seemingly only to himself, "quick tempers, slow minds."

Little Walder and Big Walder cackle like it's the funniest thing they've heard in their lives.

"Put the boy down," their Head of House instructs them. They comply, albeit grudgingly. "My dear miss Stark, there is no troll running loose in Hogwarts. I can't imagine who would start such a rumor or why you'd believe my House was behind it, but I assure you, whoever it was, they lied to you."

This time, Jon prevents their sister from giving anything else away by covering her mouth with his hand. "We are sorry, Professor," he says in his woe-is-me voice, the one that is only slightly different from his regular voice but seems to always work anyway.

Their teammates echo his words, too, but none of them is foolish enough to attempt to leave. If the man before them were anybody else—say, Professor Lannister or Professor Martell—this little adventure would cost them nothing more than a few House points and perhaps a couple hours in detention. But Professor Baelish, though never going to the extents of one Stannis Baratheon when it came to punishing misbehaving students, was not exactly known for his mercy. Particularly when it came to Gryffindors bearing the Stark name.

Robb can almost hear the howlers they'll all be getting next morning.

So much for his fame and glory.

* * *

Sansa is with Margaery, Loras, Alys, and some other Ravenclaws when news break of her siblings' recent brush with a made-up troll. While Renly animatedly regales them with his version of the story, she busies herself with her homework in an attempt to conceal her face. There is a knot in her stomach which she knows has nothing to do with the extra serving of lemon cakes she had at lunch.

The sensation only intensifies as she hears the story: her siblings and their friends set out to find a troll that Slytherin had set loose on the school (that much she knew), but someone had tricked them and they'd ended up running into Petyr Baelish instead.

Sansa feels like throwing up.

She closes her eyes for a moment and tries to think of something else. The sun kissing her skin. The cool breeze that carries the sharp scents of the pine-trees and the flowers in the Forbidden Forest. The sounds of the birds, chirping from the safety of their trees. The ground beneath her, smelling of earth and rain and grass. If she focuses on all these things long enough, maybe her heart will stop beating so fast.

The sudden pressure of a hand on her shoulder startles her. When she looks up she finds Margaery is the only one that's looking at her; the rest of the Ravenclaws are still listening to Renly, who's now flailing his arms wildly in a most adorable manner.

"Are you okay?" Margaery asks her. Then, lowering her voice, she adds, "Is it because of... Joffrey?"

Sansa looks away, hating her for what she's implying and hating herself for knowing exactly what she is implying – and knowing it much too well.

"It's not Joff," she tells her quietly. "Well, not exactly." She swallows thickly and meets Margaery's eyes. Despite their age difference, they have been good friends for years. She knows she can trust Margaery. "If I tell you something, can you promise to keep it a secret?"

"_Someone_ is being mysterious. I'm kidding!" she hastens to add. She squeezes Sansa's shoulder. "You can trust me, darling."

Sansa nods. Her housemates are thankfully too entertained by Renly's antics to pay them any mind, so nobody notices when she and Margaery move slightly away from the group.

It takes Sansa a while to speak again, but thankfully, Margaery is always patient with her. She waits for Sansa to sit down by the lake, the tips of her toes testing the water tentatively. It's surprisingly warm.

"What happened to my siblings..." Sansa says at last, her eyes resolutely fixed on the water. "I think it might be my fault."

Margaery sighs and rubs her back, but she says nothing, waiting for her still.

"Yesterday Joff told me about the troll. He said Slytherin was hiding it in a room near the dungeons, past the statue of the pointy-bearded wizard with the crown. But I didn't know it was a lie until now! I swear! So when Robb and Jon asked me if I Joffrey had said anything about the troll, I told them. See? It's all my fault!"

"Don't be absurd. Even if it was your fault, they are only being punished, not tortured, for Merlin's sake. You are being ridiculous."

As it turns out, Sansa is being anything but ridiculous. That very afternoon she is treated to not one, not two, but to seven people giving her the cold shoulder. Of course she'd expected as much from most of the team, perhaps even from Arya, but Jon and Robb? Her mature, sensitive older brothers who'd only a few days before had all but sworn they'd harm anyone who hurt her?

She spends the rest of the day locked inside Ravenclaw Tower, refusing to come out even when Bran goes to her room with promises of stories and lemoncakes. After supper he returns with Margaery, the little traitor, and Sansa has no choice but to let them both in. Apparently the two of them bonded over their mutual dislike of Joff, which doesn't surprise Sansa in the slightest. Everybody seems to hate Joff.

Sometimes she thinks she hates him too.

It's hard to dwell on that when she has her baby brother and her dearest friend here, both plopped down on a bed that's too small to fit the three of them and too comfortable for any of them to move. Sansa has never been happier that Bran was sorted into Ravenclaw.

"They don't hate you," he's saying, his voice tired, "they hate Joffrey. There's a difference."

Margaery nods enthusiastically, as if one's siblings hating one's boyfriend is an everyday occurrence.

"How many points did they lose?" Sansa asks.

"Fifty." A pause. "Each."

Of course she'd already suspected as much after she'd run into Professor Martell at the hallway and he openly glared at her. He had never been good at hiding his feelings, especially when his House was involved, and Sansa can only imagine how he'd be looking at the Gryffindor quidditch team for the next few days.

"What else?" she asks, knowing there is more. Nobody gets away that easily when it comes to Professor Baelish.

Bran and Margaery exchange a meaningful look.

"Detention. Nothing out of the ordinary... Oh, and he's suspending them all from playing Quidditch."

"He is doing _what_?"

No wonder Professor Martell was fuming. He'd been promising his House would win for as long as Sansa could remember. She'd heard somewhere it had to do with his sister's untimely death at the hands of Slytherin Death Eaters, but that had happened before Sansa was born, during the war.

"Can he _do_ that?"

Margaery frowns. "I think he can. I mean, Gryffindor has other players who can replace the current team temporarily. It still seems very..."

"Convenient?" Sansa finishes for her, because she thinks so too. There's a match coming up and sure enough, it's Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

"Wouldn't put it past Joff," Bran says.

"Not Joff." Margaery shakes her head, thoughtful. She looks at Sansa and they both know they're thinking the same thing. "Baelish."

"Our Charms professor?" Bran asks with all the innocence of a Second Year student. "But he's so funny!"

"He is our Head of House's enemy, as well as the Head of Slytherin House," Margaery says darkly, as if that is all the explanation that is needed.

Sansa is about to add that he's also their mother's childhood friend, but she bites her tongue in time. There's an unspoken agreement in their family that the name Littlefinger never be mentioned, not even amongst themselves.

Luckily, Bran doesn't seem to pick up on the fact that the Littlefinger he knows from their parents' stories is their professor Baelish. His brow is furrowed in concentration. "But if he's enemies with our House, why does he want to sabotage Gryffindor?"

"Are you sure you are a Ravenclaw?" Margaery asks him. She is only half joking, but Bran pouts anyway.

"Gryffindor has a good team this year," Sansa points out. At least that's what Loras says, and if anyone's to be believed when it comes to Quidditch, it's Loras. "He'll beat them easily if they're just using substitutes." Of course that leaves all the other matches, but Sansa would bet all the gold in Gringotts that he's already got something under his sleeve for all of them.

How could she be so stupid? She is a Ravenclaw. She is supposed to be smarter than this. If anyone should have seen through Joffrey's plot, it should have been her.

But it wasn't, and now her brothers and her sister hate her.

As if sensing her distress, Margaery scoots closer to her and coos, "Come, come, dear, don't be sad." She throws an arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss to her hair. "We will figure this out."

"We?" Bran repeats. Sansa isn't sure why his voice sounds so queer, or why he is looking at them as if he's seeing them for the first time.

"Yes, we," Margaery says firmly. Sometimes Sansa wonders why she didn't get sorted into Gryffindor when she is so brave and strong. "We are Ravenclaws, are we not? It's only natural that we should fix the messes Gryffindor and Slytherin leave behind."

Sansa smiles at her. Margaery has certainly taken Varys' lessons to heart.

* * *

It's only their first day of detention and already Arya feels like she's about to crack. Is this what being in Azkaban is like? She thinks of the Targaryens and their supporters, rotting in their cells for over a decade now. Still she doesn't find it in her heart to pity them. The war those muggle-hating scum started cost her family too much, and even if she never knew any of the victims, the scars run too long and deep in her blood for her to forgive or forget.

Professor Baelish coughs and she jumps in her seat, startled. She catches Asha's eye, but the Seventh Year stucks her tongue at her and continues to work on her essay. To Arya's delight, she hasn't made much progress either. Neither has the rest of the team, except—surprisingly—Griff.

Arya glares at Baelish. What kind of demon makes _Quidditch players_ write essays? What kind of demon makes Quidditch players write, period? And yet here they are, trying to describe the many ways in which what they did was terrible in no less than a thousand words.

The rumors are right: Petyr Baelish is the _devil_.

She's in the middle of a daydream that mostly involves her hexing Baelish when someone raps at the door. At once, the sound of quill scratching parchment comes to a halt. Arya holds her breath, only to release it in a disappointed huff when Theon Greyjoy walks in, smirking and swaggering like some kind of duck.

Predictably, Robb's face lights up at the same time Jon's darkens. Theon's eyes dart between his Head of House and his best friend before settling on the former.

"Mr. Greyjoy," Professor Baelish says. From his tone, Arya deduces Theon is not his favorite student. Not that she blames him: she doubts anyone truly likes Theon. "How's our newest student?"

Arya strains her ears to hear. She's only been in Hogwarts for three years, but three years are enough to know new students are a rarity around here. Whoever this person is, they must be either rich or in desperate need of refuge. Perhaps both.

"Well," Theon grumbles. "It's... Um... It's something else."

He then mumbles something incomprehensible. Whatever it is, it seems Professor Baelish understands it, and does not like it at all. His face is pale when he turns to them and announces, "It seems," —and Arya has the pleasure of seeing him sweat and struggle to come up with the words— "there's been a... a misunderstanding."

Beside his Head of House, Theon shifts uncomfortably. Arya catches him frowning at Robb, as if trying to convey something to him using body language alone.

And then Baelish actually says the words, "You are free to go," and Arya is so shocked she doesn't know what to do for a moment, "though I suggest you thread with care. It turns out there is a troll in Hogwarts after all." The smile he gives them is sickeningly, misleadingly sweet. "But not to worry, I'm sure the seven of you can handle it."

"Of course we can!" Young Griff cries stupidly. "We are Gryffindors!"

"Ten points from Gryffindor for idiocy," Baelish says easily. "Now get out, all of you. But don't think I'm forgetting you broke into my office."

"Where is the troll?" Robb asks in his serious, I'm-Captain-of-the-Quidditch-Team-and-Head-Boy voice.

"Do I look like I care, Mr. Stark?"

Actually he does, though Arya suspects he doesn't so much as care as fear his reputation and that of his House is now at stake.

"I believe I've told you all to get out."

"But—but there's a troll out there!" Olyvar Frey protests. This is precisely why Arya said they shouldn't have brought him along.

"Greyjoy, get them out of my sight. I've had enough of Gryffindor stupidity for the day. I have to save some up for when I actually have to teach them."

"Yes, sir."

And with that, they're dismissed. The minute Theon shuts the door close, however, they are all onto him like starving crows.

"What was that about a new student?"

"Where's the troll?"

"You'd better fess up, little brother, if you don't want your pretty face ruined."

"Come on, Theon, I'm your best friend! We need to know how to get to Gryffindor Tower safely, at the very least."

"What do you mean, get to Gryffindor tower? Aren't we going to catch him?"

"Merlin's beard, shut up, all of you! I don't know anything! And what are you going to do, anyway? Have Snow bat his eyelashes at the thing and hope it surrenders?"

Jon shoots him a glare. Arya joins him; their mutual hatred of Theon Greyjoy is one of the many joys of their bond.

"We have a strategy," Griff says proudly. Then his face falls as he realizes that strategy relied on them knowing where the troll was. "Well, we had one, at least."

Theon looks like he's about to say something, but he falters at the combined intensity of his sister and his best friend's looks. "I don't know anything, I promise," he says meekly. "All I know is students are hearing growls and heavy footsteps all over the castle. Nobody knows where the bloody thing is, but all the professors are on it, alright? So don't do anything stupid."

He gives Robb one warning look before he leaves.

Arya doesn't miss the fact that he's chosen to ignore her question about the new student.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the Hogwarts kitchens, Bran is celebrating his very first prank at Hogwarts by stuffing his face with sandwiches and pumpkin tarts and whatever else the good house elves see fit to bringing him. His best friends, Jojen Reed and his sister Meera, both Hufflepuffs with intimate knowledge of the kitchens, aren't eating at all.

"What's wrong?" Bran asks them.

As usual, Jojen chooses to be enigmatic and not answer at all, so that Meera has to. Bran prefers it that way. Jojen believes in Divination and Runes and all that nonsense; his advice is seldom sound anyway.

"You did something very stupid, Bran," Meera tells him. "You are only going to cause your siblings even more trouble. And if you're caught..." She lets the sentence hang. She too knows how to be as ominous as her brother.

"You should have at least waited to see what your sister and her girlfriend had in mind before you acted on your own," Jojen adds.

"Margaery isn't Sansa's girlfriend. And anyway, I won't get caught. I never get caught."

* * *

A/N: Feedback is love.


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